


Moon Drop

by kugels



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Rating may change in later chapters, Vampires, Werewolves, really just denmarks backstory, this is basically just the prologue, vampire!norway, werewolf!denmark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 15:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4441910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kugels/pseuds/kugels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kristjan thought it would be easy, too. He thought he'd hated every last one of them. Their despicable race would be exterminated, and he'd be a hero, just like his father. Mothers would tell their children stories of him, stories of Kristjan the Great, the Destroyer of Dark Ones, The Vanquisher of Vampires...</p><p>When they'd charged into the village head on, torches alight in their hands and silver blades at the ready, he'd changed his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moon Drop

**Author's Note:**

> Mkay so this is my first fic on AO3, and I've been contemplating this AU for a while. I've really gone into detail with it and I hope people like it. I guess updates will depend on if people actually want more so...
> 
> Also my tumblr is kugels if thats of any interest. Keep in mind this doesnt take place in our world, and so there's no set time, but the technology and settings would be similar to that of say... the seventeenth century? Let's go with that.

When Kristjan was small, his mother would say the same thing every night before tucking him into bed.

" _Dream not of the dark ones_." She would say.

And so he wouldn't, most of the time.

On the occasions that he did, he'd run into the woman's room and curl up next to her under layers of thick blankets. She'd kiss him on the forehead  and whisper stories in his ear of his valiant father, who had slain thousands of the dark ones in the Annihilation. Kristjan would fall asleep peacefully.

When Kristjan was a bit older, the light of the moon had started giving him terrible fevers, and his mother was there to drape a cold cloth across his forehead. She'd brush his hair away from his sweaty face and tell him he was almost ready. He was almost a man.

When his fiftieth winter came, he had finally done it. His bones had cracked and molded, his skin becoming covered in a thick layer of auburn fur. And his mother was there the whole time, stroking his new snout and cooing into the thick coat of his neck. Kristjan had nuzzled her then, whimpering because this was painful, this hurt, and he didn't want to do this every moon.

When he shifted back, it was equally as painful, but his mother was there to hug him, giving him unripped clothes and a loving smile. She told him she was proud that he'd braved through it, that he'd done it for the village and for their kind. That he'd make a great warrior one day.

He missed his mother terribly. He had no siblings, no aunts or uncles, and his father had been killed by a dark one near the end of the Annihilation. Kristjan had known loneliness without her, but he had friends, and many had taken a liking to him in his village. Some were close enough for him to consider family.

When Kristjan had reached his four-hundredth winter, he was drafted for another Annihilation.

He was taken to a camp in the far North, so far that he was sure it had taken weeks to get there by shifting. They trained him in combat and tactics, and he had worked hard to reach the top of his batch. He'd been sent off early, and they relocated him to a camp even farther up North, with rolling mountains that seemed to be perpetually blanketed in snow.

Kristjan's first mission had been "simple", they told him.

He was to wipe out an entire village of dark ones by burning every house, everybody, every last one of them.

Kristjan thought it would be easy, too. He thought he'd hated every last one of them. Their despicable race would be exterminated, and he'd be a hero, just like his father. Mothers would tell their children stories of him, stories of Kristjan the Great, the Destroyer of Dark Ones, The Vanquisher of Vampires...

When they'd charged into the village head on, torches alight in their hands and silver blades at the ready, he'd changed his mind.

Women were screaming, men were jumping in front of their families. Could  _they_  even  _have_  families, he wondered? But the children... The children were what brought his ruin.

Children the colour of snow, eyes bright with terror and innocence, flames and blood reflecting in their rolling tears. They were either carried by their parents or hiding from Kristjan's fellow warriors. He'd cornered a child with black hair, and he felt sick as he watched the child hide his face in his knees, holding his head and whimpering " _Mama_ , _Papa_..."

He would leave, he would let this one go. They were supposed to rid the Earth of every single one of these damned creatures for good. But he turned away from the child and stalked out of the alley. The village was burning, smoke and licks of fire billowing from houses and shops, and some buildings were caving into themselves.

When all was done, and the only noises were either the screams from the soon-to-be dead or from moaning buildings, Kristjan realized he still had his torch. He hadn't burned a single thing. He hadn't killed a single dark one.

Kristjan returned to the camp of his regiment, and the captain of the team reported to the general's quarters. Apparently, no one had noticed Kristjan's inactivity in their pillaging, and he was left alone.

That was only the beginning.

Over the years, he had learned to turn off his thoughts, his morals. He killed as many dark ones as he was told to. And mission after mission, Kristjan climbed the ranks.

He began begin sent on assassinations, offing Lords and Ladies that just so happened to be vampires, princes and princesses that drank thick red liquid from their bejeweled goblets.

His leaders were replaced many times, and each of them grew to favour his skill for dulling himself down when slaughtering dark ones. When reporting back, spies would return with stories of pale creatures whispering about the wolf that offed Lady Sivsdottir, or the red mutt that ripped open Prince Jarsson's throat. 

Kristjan cared not. His reputation skyrocketed, and after his seven-hundred and forty-second winter, Kristjan was called in for another solo pursuit,

He was to use a false identity. He was to somehow infiltrate the dark ones' capital, Oslo. He was to gain the trust of the King, and then...

And then he had to kill him.


End file.
